


Promise Not, to Promise Any More

by Anonymous



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, Intersex Character, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon Cardassia, Threesome, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 21:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13644456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Another of my Thematic Two-shots, contrasting earlier events to life on Post-Canon Cardassia.  This time:Ten and Eight Lubak could have been something beautiful, something powerful, something soul-crushing.  Ten made promises he could not deliver on, until decades later.





	1. Bamarren

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cancennau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cancennau/gifts), [cohobbitation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cohobbitation/gifts).



> personally, I read the Cardassian age of emergence as 18 - so all Bamarren students are adults. Young, foolish ones, but adults.

Elim had always dealt in secrets.

Even as a young and impressionable Ten Lubak.  He held secrets close, then, and traded them and collected them.  Later, he would learn to spend them. 

But, for now, he listened closely in a way he learned from Eight.  Oh, how he _loved_ to observe and learn from Eight.  He had a way of lulling one into conversation, hardly dropping any of his own words into the community pot, and instead sneaking off with whatever ingredients he needed.  

Elim _tried_ one day, on a walk after Instruction with Five.

Five gestured over his shoulder, and spoke in his own confident way.

“Since we are through with the trials,” he led, “I can tell you.”

Elim leaned in at _that_ , such a blatant invitation, offered exclusively to strengthen their bond.  Whatever Five needed to trade for later, Elim would take this, now.

“I spent two _days_ here, once, without being found,” he concluded, gesturing backward with one shoulder.

Elim chose to nod, instead of speak: _let Five decide what to bring out on his own, don’t pressure, just wait._

“To keep in mind, for your final Competition,” Five suggested.  

 _Oh_!

He went into the space Five had gestured to, exploring with some degree of caution, noting as many details as his untrained mind would take in at once; the bend of the glades, the way the sunlight _just_ broke between the mouths of rocks, the way the air seemed to still when one reached the very center.  

And, somehow, he could not force himself to think of the Competition itself.

He thought about how _nice_ this place would be with an entirely different agenda.  If he were to bring someone here to this seclusion, how romantic it would be, how serene… undisturbed…

“I can see why,” he said, at last.  But Five had left long ago.

If there was one thing Elim was confident in, it was Eight’s ability to keep a secret.  Anyway, Five’s fondness for Eight was transparent, and any transgression could be easily forgiven.

This was what Elim told himself when he returned from this new location.  He caught Eight with ease, returning from his own leisurely walk, taken in the other direction and in routine solitude.

“I have something to show you,” he said quietly, after Eight had merely bowed his head to greet him.  “Will you promise not tell the others?  It is… for the Competition--”

“It could be for nothing,” Eight smiled, and Elim would not have been able to say anything else, anyway, “and my word would be the same.”

They walked there together - comfortably, quietly - noting the position of the moon as it rose above their backs.  

Elim suffered the momentary fear he was taking advantage of Eight’s trust, as he held aside the tall grass and escorted him inward, but it was hard-won in the first place.  He must have done something to deserve it, something Eight _liked_.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” led Elim.

Eight took it in, in much the same way Elim had, with his eyes wide and his head turning slowly until each blade of grass had been given meticulous consideration.  He reached out to touch the face of one of the stones, and found it radiating warmth from its day in the path of sunshine.  He allowed it to calm him, and he lost the carefully constructed arch in his shoulders, sighing softly.

He would not be so relaxed with anyone else; Eight pressed his back to the stone and slid down, until he was sitting comfortably in the sand.  It was the same kind as that in the Pit - it had to be - but it was so much softer here.  Elim thought he might manage to sleep in it, a chance that became more and more tempting as the long, quiet moments wore on.

He shook his head and stepped in closer, crouching beside the rock Eight had chosen.  Eight offered one hand, stretching it forward and insisting - with only his eyes - that Elim take it for balance as he lowered himself.

By now, the moon had crept up higher, above their backs, illuminating the crowns of their filament as they bowed their heads together and spoke.  

“Beautiful,” appraised Eight.  “Discreet…”

With only the slightest bit of discomfort in that implication, Elim shifted his legs and dug further into the fine sand, so he was laying nearly flat, staring upward.  Eight followed this progress with his gaze, keeping it gentle but still, somehow, infinitely perceptive.

“It is such a shame there’s a curfew,” Eight decided, following Elim’s example.  

Elim felt his breath catching in his throat, hot and insufficient.  It took him a long moment to gather it up again, enough to reply.

“Next time we have drills on camoflauge, we… perhaps--”

At this, Eight’s eyes glinted, safe in knowing he and Elim were not facing each other any more, and his desires would not be so easily construed.  To take cover on the reserve _together_ was unheard of, scandalous, and foolish.

“--although I suppose,” Elim continued, “it would not fare well for you to… to be caught here, in my arms, and, even if I could shield you from view it would… err--”

Eight did not enjoy watching Elim struggle just for the sake of it, but rather because it meant he was embarrassed, and his conduct was genuine.  This was a trait Elim had been scolded for, publically, and from every _possible_ angle with every _possible_ motive, so Eight loved to be at the pure, unaltered center of it.

“It would not fare well,” Eight decided for both of them, but he turned his head to the side and grinned.

They were so close together, now, chins aligned, sharing breath, making little tremors and disruptions in the sand each time one exhaled.  Elim had not intended to flare his nostrils out so much, but he was nervous, and known for overcompensating.

His scales, too, had begun to flush, which Eight noticed most prominently along his neck, in the soft white gradient cast over his skin by the moonlight.  Carefully, Eight reached forward to touch one, and the contact registered as nothing more than another breath, as far as Elim could tell.  To confirm this - or deny it, more truthfully - he rolled onto his side, and let his forehead loom over Eight’s.  Instead of seeing this as intimidation, Eight saw devotion, and the weight of it was almost enough to scare him.

Almost, if he had not felt the same.

Elim asked quietly if they might touch, just for a moment…

“Not… not _that_ ,” Elim continued to articulate his thoughts poorly, “--we…”

Remaining quiet, Eight settled his smile, and widened his eyes, and took Elim’s hand in his for guidance.  Elim felt excited, but strange, to agree on their desires silently.  Merely from Eight’s fingers, pulsing around his own as he was led beneath Eight’s tunic, Elim understood exactly where their limits for the night were set.

He dipped one nail inside Eight’s chuva, already formed and neatly pronounced, ridges as delicate as those on his face.  Elim touched with a sense of restrained curiosity, rubbing the pad of his fingertip in gentle circles, within, and listening to the interrupted sighs this action drew from Eight.

Then, having his hand removed from within Eight’s clothes, Elim drew it further downward, cupping over Eight’s slit through his trousers.  He pulled their bodies together again, and rubbed his own slit more firmly over Eight’s, creating addictive friction.  The pent up energy spurred him on to nip at Eight’s chin-ridge, and he promptly apologized and pulled away.

“Ten!” Eight said, equally surprised by Elim’s boldness and then his restraint.  “I _want_ to, but we--”

“Forgive me, my friend,” Elim mumbled.  “If you’ll go in now, you should make it before the curfew, and I’ll simply--”

He took a quick, sharp breath, while Eight watched him kindly, encouragingly.

“--Stay,” said Elim.  “Go on, go on.”

“I will, Ten.  Without a word.”

“What would I do without you?” Elim mumbled, mostly to himself.  But it did not sound so lighthearted, after all, and Eight leaned in close and touched Elim’s cheek with his palm.  Elim went on indebting himself further, and tried to continue on without it becoming embarrassing.

Elim helped Eight to stand, and reached to straighten his uniform, tugging down on the tunic hem with both hands, adjusting the tightness of the belt, rubbing away the wrinkles from the knees of his trousers.  

After Eight departed, Elim spent the rest of the night in solitude, stuck in the very spot he was afraid of being discovered.  Oh, when he gathered the conviction, he would crawl out of it, and allow himself to be caught out in the open, as far away as he could run before the Prefects found him.  But for the night, he remained there on his back, touching himself hesitantly, whimpering into the cover of the glades, ignoring the movement of the moon.  He hoped Eight was safe in the dormitory, beneath his blanket, deflecting questions about Elim’s whereabouts.  The man was capable of being perfectly silent, while still appearing cooperative.  Maybe he would sleep restfully, before the questions even came up.

Elim could not say the same for himself.

He remained awake, sobbing ‘ _Eight, oh Eight’_ in various intonations.  


	2. The Back Garden

Like virtually every other open space, the Bamarren reserve had been razed.  Elim went to it once, just to _see_ , knowing perfectly well what to expect even before disembarking from the skimmer. 

Kelas was good enough to go with him, and kept a respectful distance while Elim stumbled through broken rocks and ashen flora, counting his paces and muttering about lunar navigation, which was not possible tonight.  

“What was it, to you?” Kelas asked gently, pulling their collar higher over their neck.  The reserve was desperately cold, clouded thickly with smoke that kept out the sun.

“I hate to say it, Kelas.  Everything.”

“Hmm,” they sighed thoughtfully, and stepped over a patch of grass, utterly burnt, to retrieve Elim by the hand.

They discussed it further on the drive back home, with Elim laughing dejectedly at all he had learned there.  It taught him to disguise himself, to blend in with his surroundings, and it…

“It was _romantic_ , Kelas, can you believe it?  There was a glade there _so_ charming, I--  I had taken Pythas there once, and did not find the space stifling at all.”

“Hmm,” Kelas said again. “You sentimental old _fool_.”

“What?  That’s not a claim _you_ are liable to make, my dear.”

As the car drove on, they gradually broke free of the smoke, enough to see the stars in addition to the streetlights overhead.  

“It makes me the _very one_ to say it, Elim, dear,” Kelas proposed.  “It makes me the expert, free to dispense opinion as I choose.”

“I’ve had enough of your diagnoses.”

“Let me finish this one.”

They did, but only after they had returned to the privacy of their little home, unrolling their mattress to cover the dusty floor of the shack Elim kept.  Something light and distracting was always necessary for Elim to fall asleep - another diagnosis Kelas had provided treatment for, but without Elim knowing - and this one transposed itself brilliantly.

“You took Pythas Lok there, did you?” Kelas asked, amused.  “Why, he’s never said a word of it to _me_.”

“I didn’t know the two of you found time to compare my escapades over Council meetings.”

Eager to impose contradiction, as Elim favored in all of his _intimate_ arguments, Kelas draped their arm over his waist when at last he laid down beside them, facing the wall and blinking wearily.  Both of them always went to bed fully clothed, but it rarely stopped Kelas from settling their groin firmly against Elim’s rear.  They could claim to be proper and modest, but Elim would still _often_ invite them to grind up against him, slotting their slit neatly between his legs, groaning and continuing well into the night.

It was not so, tonight, because they were deep in playfully argumentative thought; they approached Elim with this desire themself, tonight.

“I did not know you and Pythas were lovers,” they observed, making no attempt to disguise the way they pulled themself in closer.  

“That’s because we were _not_ ,” said Elim.  “Here, Kelas.”

He turned over to lie on his back, helping to arrange Kelas on top of him, where they could stimulate themself without shame, and with Elim watching.  Their slit was slightly larger than Elim’s, and their penis slightly smaller, and so they found the highest possible pleasure in rutting.  Elim held their hips in place, and watched them tease themself, shivering as the knotty texture of their nightshirt caught their folds, and scraped alongside them in motion.

Elim reached for the blanket, and covered Kelas’s shoulders with it, knowing they preferred privacy, even when it was strictly performative.  

“We managed little more than you and I are doing now,” Elim explained, failing to suppress a delighted little yelp when Kelas threw back their head in the pleasure they created.

Often, Kelas suffered from tremors in their fingers, and these only became more exaggerated as their nails drawled to the base of their nightshirt, and began to roll it upward.  Elim watched intently, and spoke in a soothing voice, until Kelas had removed it entirely.  This was _curious_ , but he was not going to complain, so long as it was done freely.

“You aren’t _jealous_ are you?” Elim asked, “and trying to… to take _us_ further?”

“That-- is-- _absurd_ ,” Kelas replied, between sharp breaths and equally forceful rolls forward. “I was not aware you and I equated to ‘us,’ in some intimate way.”

“I… you, _we_ ,” Elim backpedaled, “What else would you call _this_?”

“‘Us.’”

“You are infinitely _irritating_ ,” said Elim, cautiously, but still holding onto the gentle curve of bone at each of Kelas’s hips.

Kelas leaned down to kiss his chufa, and then rolled over and shuffled back into their nightshirt, unfolding their arms carefully through the sleeves before holding onto Elim again, from one side.

“Why don’t you ask Pythas over sometime?” they proposed.

“What, into the garden shed?”

“Into the garden.  Why not?”

At this point, having not reached satisfaction, Kelas searched under the covers for Elim’s hand, and, with permission, took it and applied it to their slit.  Elim rubbed him gently, and then gradually increased the pressure until Kelas could not continue their argument even if they wanted to.

“You know that it took you and I _years_ to reach this point,” Elim tried to excuse his actions, in case Kelas did not like them on anything beyond a purely physical level. “Pythas and I were acquainted barely three years, and were _much_ younger.  And under constant supervision, I might add.  What do you think would’ve happened?”

Breathing quickly, Kelas nodded and mumbled a handful of half-formed words, and then shut their eyes with determination.

“You would’ve wanted more, hmm?” Kelas asked, struggling.

Elim happily pulled them closer and watched them squirm, unable to evert with his hand planted in the way.  

“I cannot imagine that.  My assignments would’ve been even _worse_.”

“Thank you,” said Kelas, opening their eyelids just enough to glare, having been one of those ‘assignments’ themself.

Elim pressed in more firmly, feeling Kelas’s folds quiver against his palm, teasing to no avail; it could take Kelas, and indeed almost any intersex Cardassian, _hours_ to evert properly.

“I imagine that makes…” Kelas gasped, “the feeling _better_.”

“I would trust your judgement, on that.”  Elim teased, “Are you ready for bed?”

Elim sleepily withdrew his hand, and Kelas never argued.  They rolled over and adjusted the blanket over their shoulder, and looked the other way.  It was much more comfortable that way, for both of them; Elim and Kelas could match their gazes without trouble, by now, in any setting but an intimate one.  Elim did not like to connect that to his memories of _work_.

“I’m not entirely sure whose side you are on, my dear,” Elim said softly, kissing vaguely at Kelas’s neck before settling down on his own side of the mattress.

The blanket remained squarely on Kelas’s, so it could not trap him, and he fell slowly into sleep.  

“I _quite_ like Pythas,” Kelas said, and it was the very last thing Elim heard clearly, that night, while Kelas went on silently touching themself.

***

So the invitation was made.

Pythas was reluctant to leave home, but Kelas promised to look after him, in case any genuine distress arose.  His scars had been given a thorough cleaning and dressing only a few days prior, when the implements finally became readily available, and he was nervous to be out and so visible.  Kelas assured him that Nal had done an exceptionally thorough job, and that Elim had put equal care into designing their activity.

“I’ve told him ‘no’ to anywhere near sand or the rubble,” said Kelas.

“To everywhere,” muttered Elim.

Pythas glanced back and forth between the two, squinting his eyes and tightening his lips in much the same way.

“What are you implying?” Pythas regretted the need to ask, but he could express nothing nonverbally, anymore, and Elim struggled to take in anything more than the seared gash beside his eye.

“I thought I had been perfectly clear in my letter,” Elim replied, while knowing he had been as vague and meandering as ever.  “There was a promise made, now a good forty years out of date.”

“Honestly?” Pythas was surprised.

“Yes,” Kelas answered on Elim’s behalf, while Elim continued winding through the words he had typed out, and the way Pythas was _supposed_ to have read them.

“You aren’t taking me to the actual _Reserve_?” he asked, at length, afraid of interrupting Elim any sooner.

“No, no,” Elim said, reaching for Pythas’s hand and patting it softly between his own, “the back garden.  I think you’ll find it comfortable and secluded.”

In the fabled back garden, the rain of ammunition had left holes across the lawn, with the drier patches crumbling and sinking altogether.  One such patch had been burrowed into further by Elim, who lacked another outlet for this impulse, having cleared the dirt indoors into monuments, but not possessing the composure to tear them down again.  So he burrowed outside, connecting haphazard tunnels left by the alloy casings until he had formed an open trench that pleased him viscerally, if not aesthetically.  There was no danger of the top collapsing - the sides, perhaps, but not the top - so Elim liked to sit inside it on cold nights and collect whatever heat he could from the springs deeply, _deeply_ buried beneath.

The dirt was warm and soft and pliant, and not dry enough to irritate Pythas’s raw skin or eyes, so they all climbed down into it together.  In preparation, Elim had set out a blanket and several cushions, sewn and repeatedly repaired by his own hand.  

Pythas continued turning his head between them, as they helped him to clamber down the makeshift stairs, one holding each of his arms.  He could not suppress a laugh - just a quiet one - when they reached the bottom.

“And this factors into my treatment?” Pythas said, on the same breath.

Kelas gave a sheepish grin, before burying their face in the draping fabric of their sleeve.  

“It is precisely how Kelas has been treating _me_ ,” Elim admitted slyly, and Kelas covered their eyes, now, too.  For their sake, Elim made an addendum, “Although, of course, we have not brought you here to treat you, but because I am heartachingly fond of you, and Kelas admits to feeling much the same.”

Kelas peeked out just long enough to nod, and Pythas took in the entire spectacle with a thin smile on his face, flattening out before it could reach his burns and stretch them.  Having seen enough of this to guess how things might progress - and his guess was ‘favorably’ - Elim fussed with the corners of the blanket and stacked up the cushions so Pythas would feel most comfortable.  Together, he and Kelas helped him to recline, and shrug out of his tunic and trousers.  Elim also stripped with enthusiasm, even folding his clothes before setting them to the side of the blanket, while Kelas nervously unfastened his long tunic, leaving it open over his chest and high-waisted trousers.  Both articles of his clothing were secured together in the middle by a single belt, more accurately a hastily painted and garishly adorned strip of rope, which Elim hated but never did worse than playfully tease.  In any case, he was looking forward to removing it when Kelas felt ready.

Reclining, Pythas found himself welcome to rest his head in Kelas’s lap, while Elim pressed studiously at his abdominal ridges, until framing his chuva with both hands.  Kelas immediately began to massage Pythas’s temples with their long fingernails, tickling his scalp and matting his filament before smoothing it out again between their careful fingers.  

“I am here to carry on some lecherous affair with a pair of old dissidents,” Pythas observed, not dimming his smile at all.

“You’ll fit in well with the new Council,” returned Elim, his hands crawling up beneath Pythas’s hemline.  

“We don’t make a _practice_ of this,” Kelas insisted.

“We _might_ ,” added Elim.

All the while, Pythas laid back comfortably, offering his arms up to stroke Kelas’s shoulders and sides, humming contentedly as he brushed vague ripples of ridge through the thick fabric.  He raised his hips enough to help Elim tug down his trousers, which he also folded and set aside while Kelas oversaw fondly.

“ _Oh_ ,” Elim marvelled to himself, quietly.  He had never truly _seen_ Pythas’s slit, and the seam scales adorning it were as delicately cast as he should have expected, but never dared to imagine in detail.  

Glossing his hand softly over the scales, he felt them as they warmed and spread, allowing admission to the slit itself.  Pythas was happily engaged in the sensations, although not yet sufficiently excited to evert, but Garak would quickly - though _politely_ \- advance this.  

Kelas went on stroking his hair while Elim leaned in and held his legs apart, breathing deeply to scent the air.  Pythas tipped his head up, then down, locking eyes with each of them in turn, feeling more desirable than he had in years.  

So, he spread his stance further, and Elim leaned in closer, and made no attempt to disguise the deep breaths he took, one after the other.  Kelas held his head and leaned in, timidly, to kiss his chufa.  Elim’s was still out of their reach, but they watched patiently.  It was perfectly common for lovers to scent one another, but Elim’s intentions were a different matter altogether, as he took in the unmatched beauty of Pythas’s slit before him, glistening in the faint dusky light.

“Dissidents, remember,” said Elim, fondly, and pressing his tongue over the edge of his lip, waiting for Pythas to see him and acknowledge this before he continued.

Kelas’s hands froze for a moment, not even trembling.  They watched as Elim bent down and hauled himself closer, keeping a tight grip on Pythas’s thighs, and then began to _taste_.  Their own legs tightened, very much beyond their control, and they rushed to begin massaging Pythas’s temples again, worried about being found out.

Elim had already seen, however, and exchanged a knowing glance first with Pythas, and then with Kelas, when he finally paused to take a breath.  He had worked diligently at opening Pythas’s folds, leaving them well-lubricated, pleasantly fragrant, and _slack._  Pythas, all the while, had made quiet sounds of encouragement and wonder, having never been treated this way before.  He everted, hardly registering the process himself, and Elim backed away from him for both of their benefits.

“Kelas…” Pythas said quietly, when Elim was finished, and began to set down his legs again, “if you’d… if you’d like to…”

The two of them struggled, equally, with admitting their passions.  While it made Pythas successful for much of his career, it left him and Kelas rather behind the Cardassian standard of settling down.  Kelas drew their hands together, above Pythas’s forehead, and clutched at their neatly parted tunic.  Pythas was patting invitingly at his chest, and Kelas was blushing a furious shade of blue that not even Elim had seen before, and Elim _did_ pause to see, now.  Kelas cast their gaze downward, and shook off their trousers, with Elim reaching to tug off the horrible rope that held them up.  

“No, don’t let me stop you, Elim,” Pythas mumbled, but Elim heard him well enough, and watched his lips.

“Or you, Kelas,” Elim said, smirking.

As he pressed his hand against his own slit, stimulating himself into a quick eversion, Kelas crouched up on their knees and crawled forward, stopping at the place Pythas indicated, above his chula and approaching the slight, vulnerable slope of his neck.  With effort, and soft devotion, Elim reached for Kelas’s shirt before tucking himself inside Pythas’s widened folds, holding the fabric up and draping it over the scene Kelas would easily call ‘indecent,’ no matter how badly he wanted it.

Finding Kelas’s slit elongated in comparison with any other he had encountered, Pythas worked his tongue inside without resistance, copying the strokes he had just learned from Elim.  Kelas whimpered and shook, and then made an effort to make themself motionless.  What had happened, they pieced together, was Elim had just pressed his cock into Pythas’s purse, and Pythas had reacted by jabbing his tongue upward more sharply, and taking in a cold, surprised, and _pleasured_ breath.  With encouragement from the others, Kelas allowed themself to shiver, and then found Pythas’s hands over their hips, pulling their seam into closer contact with his mouth.  He did not force them to move on their own, but instead braced them, and allowed them to react to the breaking force of Elim’s thrusts, as these increased in speed.

Because of the fabric of Kelas’s tunic, Elim could not see where the other two met, intimately, but he could guess.  He happily watched as Kelas’s lips failed to form words, closing and gulping silently, before their head fell forward, overwhelmed.  He continued thrusting steadily, pulling himself down to rest, somewhat awkwardly, over Pythas’s belly, where he kissed and nipped lightly at his chuva.

“ _Mmm_ , Elim,” Pythas could be heard groaning, holding Kelas back far enough to breathe unobstructed.  “And _heavens_ , Kelas…”

This was a pleasure Elim regretted he could not grant to Kelas, himself, but he was thrilled to watch his dear friend deliver it so flawlessly.  Kelas continued to tremble and whimper despite their best efforts, more than their mere rutting over Elim had ever allowed for.  Elim could not help the momentary envy he felt, but he did at least try to suppress it, crying out each of his partners’ names in turn.  

Kelas sensed Elim might be feeling badly, having spent _years_ watching him feel badly, exclusively, and lifted themself enough to crawl off of Pythas’s face.  They stopped over his belly, not putting their weight down, and reached forward to cup Elim’s dearly beloved face, pulling him into one of the humanized kisses he had grown so fond of.

Until now, Elim’s hands had been locked around Pythas’s hip-bones, helping to guide himself in and out of the welcoming body.  He unlatched one, and felt around blindly for Pythas’s cock, encircling it and committing every little detail of the flared ridges to memory.

“ _Mmm,_ ” he returned, slicking Pythas’s length in his hand, closing his fingers tightly.  He meant to add a proper word or two, but Kelas’s lips flattened over his again, and he did not resent the silence at all.

It was difficult for all of them to be _perfectly_ happy simultaneously.  Pythas, for example, would have greatly liked to see Elim’s face, and to be able to lavish affection on the chu’en he could reach.  Kelas was reluctant to settle their weight over someone they had only shaken hands with, previously; it was a source of discomfort for them, and it took a great deal of time for them to show their body, completely, to Elim.  

But they sat, and ducked low enough for Pythas to see over their shoulder, and Elim felt positively _weak_ at how well the two seemed to connect nonverbally, as Elim and Pythas had practiced decades ago.  Kelas took on the responsibility of treasuring Elim’s chula, sucking it carefully between their teeth, and Pythas supported himself on his elbows enough to see Elim’s face as he moved himself ever closer to completion.

Ordinarily, it took Kelas a great amount of effort and exertion to evert - their penile ridges could endure all manner of friction even if their slit was penetrated - but Pythas’s tongue had shortened the process considerably.  They settled and spread themself out carefully over Pythas’s chuva, now, and their cock slid forward with very little pressure, after the initial contact was made.  Their folds were cool and slick to either side of Pythas’s chuva, and he took his turn to shudder.

Elim hugged Kelas close with one arm, and continued using his other hand to tease Pythas’s cock.  Kelas rutted happily, and Pythas gasped and growled in a similar tone, and Elim could not take the masterpiece of this for much longer.  He began to spill himself deep within Pythas’s body, and Kelas leaned in to kiss his lips again, and he only fell further.

“Mm, a-- a moment, Kelas, my dear.  Allow me--”

Carefully, he touched Kelas’s prick - as the two of them had, in fact, agreed to lovingly call it - and held it in line with Pythas’s.  Being smaller, it slotted quite neatly into the center ridgeline of Pythas’s, and the new point of friction made both of them shudder.  Elim wrung them out, together, and the streams were shared between his own belly, and Kelas’s.

He held them together tightly, protectively, _possessively_ , until both had finished, leaving their semen dribbling down the sides of their cocks, rolling alongside ridges to pool over their seam-scales, and then he allowed himself release.  Passionately, he returned to kissing Kelas, thrusting forward until Pythas was utterly _filled_ with his seed, and then he simply _stopped_ , remaining still for a long, reflective time.

His thoughts fought amongst themselves, and he did not know how to feel about the one that was victorious:

“I have not taken a lover like that in _years_ ,” he admitted, finally slipping free of Pythas’s slit and beginning to soften.

Kelas, after shuffling off of Pythas’s middle, quirked a brow-ridge at this, and then helped Pythas to sit up, too.

“How unusually kind of you, Elim,” Kelas said, while Pythas panted and tried his best to nod.

“ _I_ am usually taken,” Elim clarified. “It isn’t important, now.”

“No, but perhaps for next time,” said Kelas.


End file.
